


Great Expectations

by asuralucier



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Crime Boss!Mello, M/M, Mention of Other Wammy Kids, Rare Male Slash Exchange 2019 Treat, Snark, University Professor!Near, Vignette Format, mention of gun kink, no kira, wammy's house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-23 21:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Nate River and Mihael Keehl try to navigate the world as former child geniuses and ongoing human disasters. (Spoiler: it doesn’t go well.)[AU where Wammy's was simply an orphanage that encouraged intellectual pursuits and careers and the two meet up later in life after becoming successful.]





	Great Expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anderseeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anderseeds/gifts).



“Hey, dickhead.” Mello was late as usual. As he flopped down on the vacant chair opposite where Near sat, with his head buried in a pile of carefully bound paper, Mello wasn’t particularly careful. He sat and knocked the edge of the table, nearly upsetting Near’s still-full pint of beer. 

The near upset jerked Near to proper attention, the way it was probably meant to. “Careful, asshole. That’s my only copy.” 

“The fuck is it anyway?” Mello reached for the edge of a sticky tab affixed to a page and Near moved lightning quick (he’d never seen the guy move so _quick_ ) to prevent Mello from laying his hands on it. “Some sort of map to buried treasure? Do they still make those?” 

“Yes, Mello, it’s a treasure trove of _knowledge_ ,” Near rolled his eyes. “It’s a colleague’s new manuscript on Johann Gottlieb Fichte. I said I’d read it for him and give him some notes.” 

Mello eyed the sticky tabs. There were a lot. “Some notes.” 

“Well, there are things about his argument that I don’t agree with.” Near said, “I’ve provided citations. I’m not cruel.” 

“Aren’t you some kind of genius,” said Mello. 

Near sighed, “I used to be.” He stuck his blunted pencil behind his ear and reached for his wallet. He poked a laminated card in Mello’s direction. “If you show them this and say you’re with Professor River they’ll give you five percent off on your drink.” 

Mello, having just cleared a straight route for all sorts of Class A’s to flow into the city by way of Copenhagen, was not exactly hurting for money. Still, he took the card, laughed at Near’s unsmiling photograph the way he had a dozen times before, and pocketed it. “Five percent, man. What even is that?” 

Near said, “It’s something.” 

At Wammy's House, what transpired between Near and Mello was easy enough to name. They hated each other because they had nothing in common. Maybe that was something else they left behind when they picked up their real names again, fit to be seen by the outside world. Hate, in its formless, listless nature, was so easily transmuted to something else. Admiration, loneliness, jealousy, and most importantly –

 _Who the hell are you, to dare to be better than me?_

The first time the authorities showed up at Near’s accommodation, which was provided to him by the university, Near answered in his dressing gown and a blooming headache resting at the back of his head. He had a deadline and looked every bit as harried as he felt. 

More immediately, Near was aware that Mello was possibly still bleeding out in his bathroom. He’d tried his best to appear as Visiting Professor Nate River, a bit confused, a bit contrite, and _Wammy’s_ , well, wasn’t that a long time ago. 

“Our records show that you know Mr. Keehl. Perhaps by another name. He is a wanted individual, highly dangerous too.” 

_”Suck my gun, Near, maybe you’ll like it.”_

Near rubbed at his eyes, mostly for show. He slept very little, and knew how to keep his wits about him. “Nevertheless, I’ve not heard from Mr. Keehl for years. Nor have I reached out. Wammy’s House is a period of my life I’d rather forget. Everyone else seems to.” 

The polite thing to do would to invite these boneheads inside for a cup of tea or coffee. Near had plenty of both, but he didn’t want to. “We don’t keep in touch much, we Wammy kids.” 

“And why not?” 

“Shame, maybe,” said Near. “You come from nowhere. Is that really something you want everyone to know?” 

“Wammy’s House has produced some _sterling_ individuals over the years.” The lead policeman switched tact. His voice was now a simpering sort of tenor, one that Near recognized and almost immediately hated. “There’s Miss Lisa Smithers, the painter. There’s Dr. Kimiko Kujo, the epidemiologist. There’s yourself, Professor River. You’ve got to admit, Mihael Keehl is sort of the odd duck out. Will you let us know if you hear from him?” 

“I’m lucky to get to where I am,” said Near. “It’s not anything special.” 

“It’s not anything special,” Mello mimicked, and then he winced as Near pressed a swab of iodine soaked gauze against the fresh wound near his gut. And then he hissed and stayed still. 

“You’re lucky I’m not fucking squeamish, Mello.” Near said. “Want anything?” 

“You mean, except for my dignity,” Mello said, with his eyes closed. 

They both watched on the television as Matt was rushed to the hospital after an accident on the racetrack. The reporters onscreen referred to Matt by another name. This was the world, after all, the world where the limelight seeped into every crack a person’s being had to offer and Wammy’s House no longer protected them. 

“Fucking idiot,” said Mello, ripping open a new chocolate bar, tearing the shiny plastic wrapper with his teeth. “Serves him right if he dies.” 

“You don’t really mean that,” said Near and reached to pinch his elbow. “You hate me more.” 

“Do I?” said Mello. Sometimes he found that he didn’t really remember. 

Near had a conference in Copenhagen, which was in the middle of Mello’s territory. Mello offered to send him a car and hung up before Near could refuse. The person who drove said car couldn’t believe that Nate River stood a little under five and a half feet tall and was actually a _university professor_. 

“I get that a lot,” Near said. “But yes, I am.” He had the feeling that his colleagues at the conference and his home institution would say the same thing, if Near ever let it slip that he knew a mob boss who was more or less responsible for pushing the best drugs into the country. After all, Wammy’s only wanted you to be the best you could be. The place took a broad view about what that might mean, and how that could be achieved. 

Sometimes, it was tempting. Other times, it was all Near could do to keep Mello to himself. 

“Oh, my fucking God,” Mello said. “How? You’re a Professor. Everyone should be throwing themselves at you. You and that fucking fuckface of yours.” 

Near felt red flush everywhere on his body, to the extent which he was slightly embarrassed about the strange warmth that went to his cheeks. Near was no hematologist, but he was almost certain that there wasn’t enough blood in a person’s body to accommodate everywhere that blood needed to go. 

“I don’t have a fucking fuckface.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” 

They were in an apartment somewhere in the city. One of Mello’s many safehouses, all of them had booze and drugs stocked up like you wouldn’t believe. Near wished he could be more like Mello sometimes, someone so proud of his work. Someone whose work held practical dimensions. 

Near pressed his fingers against the soft suede upholstery of the sofa. He decided it was a nice sofa and wouldn’t it be a shame if they got come on it. 

“It’s _inappropriate_ ,” Near said. “And all of my colleagues are old as fuck.” 

That was probably the wrong thing to say, because that promptly sent Mello into a fit of laughter. Once he’d recovered, he said, "Man, your life must really suck. You keep thinking about fucking people from work.” 

“You must fuck people from work,” Near pointed out. Not that Mello really worked. He probably just waved a gun around and in Near's estimation, that wasn't work because Mello liked brandishing a gun at every opportunity. It wasn't really work unless you really hated it.

“Yeah because,” Mello trailed off and then punctuated his non-sentence with a deliberate shrug. “It proves a point.”

Near went to him and loped his arm around Mello’s shoulders. “Haven’t you always wanted to prove a point with me? You _hate_ me, Mello. I think I could get off on it.” 

“You little shit,” said Mello faintly. But then why look a gift horse in the mouth? 

The next morning, Mello decided he needed to dry clean his suede sofa, and it was only inevitable that Professor Nate River was late for his keynote.

When Near left in the car Mello had arranged for him, his tie was still askew and he squirmed as he sat, as if he wasn't quite sure how to be comfortable.


End file.
